


traced lines

by sumniaa



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: (nothing to serious don't worry), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumniaa/pseuds/sumniaa
Summary: Ethari helps his husband, Runaan with repainting his tattoos.
Relationships: Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince), Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98





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Ethari dipped a brown cloth into a heated bowl of water just as another bolt of lighting screeched outside. Water dripped down his wrist, to his elbow. He brought the cloth to Runaan's healing face. His husband, his brave, brilliant, beautiful, _alive_ , husband looked him in the eye. As he always did when Ethari did his tattoos. 

In gentle strokes -as not to upset the bruised, healing skin on Runaan's face- Ethari brushed away the old faded blue henna on his straight nose bridge. Runaan said nothing, only looked on at Ethari. As if he could will them back to normality with just a hard stare. 

It was stubborn, to wish for normalcy, when both their lives had been anything but for such a long time. 

Ethari rubbed some more. The dark bruises dotting Runaan's face, under his chin, on his eye were, not normal. The missing horn, edges rough from the break, was not normal. The wooden arm was not normal. 

They would never _be_ their old normal again, and for Runaan to will his back to that part of life long lost, was stubborn, just plain stubborn. 

The thought of Runaan in that- that prison. At the mercy of that dark mage. Ethari hardened his strokes, wiping faster. Runaan had given one insight on how that coin was. He had simply said " _I relived what I most wanted to forget, over and over_." And he had not said a word since. The man had walked out to greet their baker after that statement. He wiped harder. 

"Ethari." Runaan said. Rain pattered against the window, candle light flickering. "Your wiping is rather 

hard." 

Ethari backed away, as if that could remove the angry red splotch at Runaan's cheeks. 

"Sorry my love I just-" But Runaan held up a hand, silencing him into continuance.

Ethari rinsed the cloth, watching the water turn a light blue from the henna. They had settled themselves in their bedroom. It was moderate in size, cozy. Teal wallpaper, darker green swirls dancing along that teal. The bed was rumpled, silver bed sheets spilling over the frame and onto the planks of the floor. The nightstand housed many candles, the natural light was dim due to the storm. Ethari had asked Runaan if he wanted to wait until the next morning, when the clouds cleared, when the sun shined in through the window. But he had said no. Ethari could not blame him. 

He brought the cloth to Runaan's shoulder, and with light hands, washed away the crumpling tattoos. A pang of sadness raced through Ethari, taking its sted in his heart like rod, as Runaan tilted his body so his wooden arm was a little more out of eyeline. More thunder, more wiping. 

"Okay," Ethari said, as he cleared the last of the old henna. He reached for the brown transparent bag that had the new. "Are you sure you don't wanna try yourself?" He asked, his voice quiet. 

"No, you've always done this before, and you'll do it now. Nothing has changed."

"Runa-" started Ethari.

"Just, please." Runaan did not look at his eyes, and that rod drove deeper. The silver of Runaan's promise ring glinted soft in the candle like. Ethari wondered if Runaan's felt as heavy as the ones gracing his horns did now. 

Without another word, Ethari brought the bag to Runaan's nose bridge and began tracing the fight blue line of were the old henna as stained his skin. 

,-,-,

Runaan shivered as the cold paste pressed to his pores. He could feel it sinking in already. Ethari's eyes were a little crossed in focusing on his nose, and his lips, so usually set in jovial manner, locked into concentration. He looked beautiful. Just as beautiful as the day they first met, Ethari has fixed his blades. Just as beautiful the day they said _I do, I will, I always will._ Ethari had been smiling, tears in his eyes. Just as beautiful the day Runaan came back, from the human kingdoms. From that prison. Ethari had not been smiling, but the tears were there. Runaan had wiped them away. 

Ethari pressed a hand to his wooden arm, Runaan shuddered. He did not want his husband to catch the look, but of course he did, he always did. Ethari slid his hand from the lifeless limb, to his shoulder. Runaan relished the warmth of his palm. Its reassurance far more meaningful than the tattoos. Though, those Runaan could not go another day without. He had been without them in that coin. He had felt more naked, more terrified than when his horn had been ripped from his body.

Maybe, if he had his tattoos while he had to relive his first assassination, his second, his third, his last, he could have endered. But he had been stripped of his armor in the prison. He had been stripped of more too. 

Countless days he had spent in that coin, countless times he had been forced to relive the murders he had committed. And the last was the worst of all. King Harrow. 

To wake, in that man's castle, to that man's son. To find Rayla, -strong, brave, beautiful Rayla- _holding_ that man's son as he helped Runaan out of that coin. To have her look at him with uncertainty, have her look for reassurance in son the first. Taking comfort from his monolid green eyes, before turning her own to Runaan's, it shattered the last remaining piece of him. 

And now he was expected to tolerate _Callum_ , as that boy held Rayla, comforted Rayla, loved Rayla. Rayla, the girl he raised, in the arms of a human. To say nothing of Callum's aunt, resting on the arm of sunfire elf general. And that same elf resting back.

Runaan had come back to a changed world, just not the world he changed. 

Every time, _every time_ , Runaan saw Callum, smile or laugh or jest, or anger, or saddened, he saw Harrow. The two were not biological, but they shared the same fire. The same fire that Runaan had killed, over and over, and over.

Runaan willed the henna, and the touch of Ethari to sooth him. He already felt more armored with just his facial tattoos. Ethari was carefully working down his arm now. Runaan remembered the first time he had ever gotten tattooed. He remembered the cream and nectar of his mother and father's voices. 

"Runaan, remember," His father had said. "Moonshadow elves tattoo designs are for life, you choose once."

"But fa," Runaan had complained, "Tidebound elves change their henna every full season." 

"Yes, as do Earthblood elves, but we are Moonshadow. Our tattoos are for life." His mother had said, crouching low enough to poke him in the belly. "They mark us, the tattoos you choose will be on the same the day you first leave for a mission, the day you find love. The day you wed and the day your baby first cries. Choose wisely."

And Runaan had. The tattoos painted on him encompained him the day he first saw Ethari, the day he left for his first assassination. The day he came back. When he wed. When he found out about his dearest friends betrayal. When their child, Rayla, was dropped at his doorstep. Meant to be Runaan and Ethari's ward. A constant reminder of her parents. He had resented her then. He could not bare to lose her now. 

The tattoos never made it to his prison though. They never lent him strength. Never pulled him through. 

Looking at Ethari paint his fingers, Runaan realized he would never look at his armor and remember the place where he was without it. And just then, as his husband was finishing up his henna, he let the first smile curve on his lips since he had left that prison. 

,-,-,

"All finished." said Ethari, laying down the brown bag. He dipped his hands in the water to wash some wayward blue paste. The tattoos had already set into Runaan's skin. More thunder crackled outside, more rain splashed against the window.

"Now, I could put some where your shoulder is, and since this is magical it will probably set into the wood if you wanted." He said, Ethari knew how important Runaan's tattoos were to him. He knew how it would hurt for his husband not to have all of his armor. 

"I don't," Runaan replied. "I just wanna help you with yours." That rod, -damned rod- drove deeper. 

"Oh it's fine, I can do it m-" Ethari felt a hand ghost over his wrist. 

"I want to do yours." His husband repeated. Ethari let a smile plant in his mouth. More thunderous rain slapped against the window. The candles danced across Runaan's features, making it so that blue tattoos gleamed, and the bruises faded into the light purple of his skin. He almost looked normal. but not of old, but new. Renewed, like Runaan's tattoos. The new normal for them.

"Okay." And Ethari tugged off his loose shirt, letting it tumble to the oak floor. 

Runaan glanced at him in mock dismay. "I was looking forward to doing that when we were done." 

"Oh well," Ethari said, all causal "I still have these on." He stretched out the band of his pants and let it snap back against his skin. He shuffled around Runaan. The bed creaked as Ethari sat down.

Runaan smiled, really smiled and a thrill went through Ethari. Stars that smile. If he could just snatch it up and hold it, lock it someplace close to his chest. Find out if it felt as radiant as it looked. He would be lost in happiness. Lost in that smile. Though he would be far tempted to keep that kind of treasure for just himself, Ethari would give it back. That kind treasure was the kind you shared. 

Runaan changed the water in the washroom. When he came back he picked up a clean cloth, wet it, and wrung it with his hand. His flesh and bone and blood hand. His non dominant hand. 

"Runaan-" But Ethari immediately felt guilty for the coddling words that worked their way up his throat. Runaan was completely capable. He did not stop being a skilled assassin, a hard working husband, a loving uncle, all because he had an oak limp. He simply became all those things, _with_ an oak limp. 

"What?" His husband asked.

"Nothing that's worth saying."

"Hmm, alright." Runaan brought the cloth to Ethari's face and began to wash away the old tattoos. Ethari's tattoos did not need replacing like Runaan's did, but he wanted them refreshed. Wanted to new.

The wet cloth sent tingles down his spine as Runaan worked away the old paste at his ear. His beloved husband's face had set in concentration. Ethari wanted to smooth out that endearing furrow between his brows. And soften that tight line of lips with his own. 

The full realization of Runaan being there hit Ethari. Not like a ton of stones, more like a golden, welcome light. His husband, his beloved, brilliant, beautiful husband was standing before him. Brilliant, beautiful face set in concentration. They had changed each other's tattoos time and time again, but this had been the sweetest by far. Ethari relished the sight of his love, every jerk and hard rub of cloth against skin. Every hair out of his braid. Every movement that meant he lived. He _relished_ it.

Runaan was trying hard to make the strokes of the cloth gentle, but his hand was untrained, and unsteady. The furrow in his brow had turned somewhat angered. His hand was shaking. How had Ethari not noticed? He _always_ noticed. 

"Love," Ethari raised his hand, cupping Runaan's elbow. Steadying his movements. Guiding them. "It's okay." They worked together in silence, Ethari guilding, Runaan trembling. Until all the old had been washed away, and his skin was ready for the new.

Runaan turned to rinse the cloth free of Ethari's old henna. Then he turned back. For the first time since he had come home, for the first time in a long time, Runaan teared up.

"I'm s-sorry I-" He tipped his head down, so Ethari could not look at him. The cloth fell from his hand. That rod dug deeper and deeper. Until it could go no farther.

"Runaan," Ethari's hand trailed up his arm, until it cupped his chin. He tilted his husband's head up, so their eyes could meet. The action a mirror to all that moment before he left. Before he died, before he came back. The recognition of it filled Runaan's gaze. "Runaan, you returned to me. _You returned._ " And the tears came in rivlets, down, down, down until they splattered against the wood of the floor. 

Ethari cupped Runaan's wet cheek, standing so he could pull him close. "You returned," He placed a kiss to his temple, a touch, soft as rose petals, a brush, a pass. "You returned," to his eyelid, "you returned," in between his pale brows. To the ball of his nose, to each glistening cheek. The corner of his mouth.

"You returned." To his lips.

,-,-, 

Runaan woke. 

He immediately felt the absence of his beloved. And his arm. They had unstrapped it before they had undressed and made their way to bed. Their hands roaming each other, relearning the lessons already read so many times. 

Runaan wondered if Ethari ever got tired of being so impossibly handsome, so _impossibly_ handsome. 

He shrugged on his teal under top and black breeches. It was the easiest it's been to dress since the loss of his arm. Delicious, golden sun poured into the room. Runaan could see dust floating through the honeyed beams. He smiled. Tying his hair back was harder, he would need Ethari to braid it for him. For now anyway. Until he relearned his own body, how work the new form. So he skipped that morning ritual entirely and looked around the rood for his arm. 

It was not under the bed, or in the tiled washroom. Or under the covers. Runaan was starting to worry. He opened the door and made his way down the stairs. 

"My love," he called when he had reached the bottom. "Have you seen my arm?" 

Runaan stopped short. There it was, in Ethari's hands. Etched all along one side was beautiful blue swirls, that gleamed, that mirrored the swirls on his flesh. Tears pricked, and Runaan smiled. Ethari was presenting his arm like he had the first weapon he had made for Runaan. 

A piece of himself that he had left in that coin returned. He would never be whole again, not since that prison, not since his first mission. His first assassination. Not since his last. 

But his armor was back. _It was back_.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to @/thewlwswin over on twitter for this idea!! Thanks for letting me use it. Also I wrote this whole thing within the span of two hours (yes, my fingers hurt) and now I'm posting it the next day, so sorry for any spelling mistakes. And I didn't do any research so *squints* wait- what do you mean Runaan's tattoos don't run down his arm to his fingers? and they infact end at his shoulder? Well, they do now. If you enjoyed this story please let me know by giving it some kudos and comments! Thanks for reading. 💖💖💖
> 
> (go give @/thewlwswin a follow on twitter, and while your there please consider follwing me @gbscorner)


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